


Nice and Easy

by twokisses



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Canon Compliant, Domestic Bliss, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, M/M, Post-Canon, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-31
Updated: 2020-05-31
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:14:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24473353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twokisses/pseuds/twokisses
Summary: "He can’t believe anything, sometimes. Sometimes he catches himself when he’s just walking through the flat, or when Penny calls and jokingly blames ‘her idiotic husband’ for something, or when he wakes up with Baz sleeping next to him in bed, and he has to remind himself that this is real. This is his life now."Simon and Baz get ready together for a wedding reception.
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 41
Kudos: 217





	Nice and Easy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pjpg](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pjpg/gifts).



> This fic was made in collaboration with the amazing [parijpg](https://parijpg.tumblr.com/)! Her gorgeous art will be embedded in the fic! 
> 
> I've adored Pari's art since the first time I saw one of her pieces, so I can't even tell you how excited I was when we started talking about collaborating a while ago!! We both have a soft spot for domestic slice-of-life stuff (as you can probably see from our previous creations!) so it was easy for us to settle on that for this collab's theme. We toyed with a bunch of ideas and eventually settled on this: a slice of a day wherein Simon and Baz go about their routine of getting ready together. It's all very domestic and very soft, and in my opinion the artwork just PERFECTLY captures the feeling of what we were going for--the warmth, the familiarity, the emotion. I was blown away with every WIP shot Pari sent me and am over the moon looking at this finished piece. And it was just such a blast working with her on this overall!
> 
> Listen to the songs mentioned in the fic right [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4uDYNgHambCRZHEALjObPn?si=EPhit1sSThKRoiZsKXVjIQ). (I'll probably be adding to it over time to include songs that weren't mentioned, so you can give it a follow!)
> 
> Enjoy!

The clock on the kitchen wall says that it’s just gone half past twelve. A minute before, Simon thought that he and Baz still had plenty of time to start getting ready to leave; the reception only starts at four. And they’ve already finished their lunch. The plates are sitting on the kitchen island between them, smeared with curry, and Baz is sipping his standard post-meal cup of tea. They should have been able to relax for a bit before getting up.

Well, the new bride herself is on Baz’s speakerphone now, and Simon is starting to think that maybe he’d gotten the wrong idea about that.

“Shit,” Penny is saying (pretty much over and over). “This is all bollocks! I mean for Snakes’ sake, who cares what the visitors’ _parking signages_ look like? Who’s going to look up a colour chart to—” Simon can imagine her waving her arms about, “—make sure the centrepieces match the bloody _balloons_?”

Across from Simon, Baz’s shoulders are shaking. But he’s hiding most of his smile behind his mug. More’s the pity.

“Your mum,” Simon says, at the same time Baz says, “Mitali.”

“Correct! I don’t know what goes on in that woman’s head!”

“She’s your mother,” Baz says. His voice is gentle, but still full of mirth. “Of course she’s going to fuss over her daughter’s wedding reception.”

“Fuss is exactly what I _didn’t_ want.”

“Pen, we told you this would happen,” Simon says. “This is why we wanted to be there and help.”

“And you practically banned us from the premises,” Baz adds.

Penny makes an indignant sound. “I did not _ban_ you.”

Simon makes a face at Baz— _can you believe this?_ —and Baz grins back, shaking his head. “Well, how were we supposed to interpret it, Bunce? You said, and I quote, having to keep track of both your mother _and_ the two of us would be too much for you to handle—”

“ _Well_ , you’re not supposed to listen to me _all_ the time.”

“That is certainly new information.”

Penny groans, and Simon rolls his eyes. He gets up then to start clearing the plates away. Baz reaches out to briefly touch his hand, shooting him a small smile: _thank you_. Then Penny is going off on another variation of the same complaints as before, and Simon lets the sound of her and Baz’s bickering fade into white noise behind him as he turns to the sink. He does miss this sometimes—the sound of the two of them hashing things out. It’s been three years since he moved out of the flat he and Penny shared and into this one with Baz. While it’s true that now Penny lives only ten minutes away from them with Shepard, and they go round to visit nearly every day, it’s not the _same_. It’ll never really be. But this is close, and it’s familiar.

Simon is done with the plates by the time Baz wraps up the conversation with Penny. He leans his tailbone against the lip of the sink and watches Baz as he promises her that they’ll be there in two hours, at the most. Penny huffs and tells them to hurry.

“Or there won’t be a reception to come to. And I’ll be divorced.”

“We believe you,” Baz says seriously. “Now take a few deep breaths, and let Snow and I get ready. Also remember that the centrepieces won’t ruin your marriage.”

“It’s not _me_ who needs remembering,” comes the grumbled reply. Then (classic Penny), the line goes dead without so much as a goodbye.

A huff of a laugh escapes Baz’s mouth. Simon shakes his head at him, grinning.

“Did you mean that?” he asks.

“What?”

“About the centrepieces.” Simon raises his eyebrows. “Would you really say that if this were _your_ wedding?”

“Shhh,” Baz says. “We weren’t talking about me.”

-

“I still think the new suits were a bit much,” Simon says.

He doesn’t need to see Baz’s face to know that he’s rolling his eyes. “I told you, Snow—you can never be too excessive with suits.”

They’ve migrated to the bedroom, having put away the dishes and bickered about who should shower first. (Simon doesn’t really know why they still do that. It’s always Baz—he takes longer in it.) Simon is spread out on the bed with his phone. There’s been a steady stream of messages coming in for the past minute or so, all Shepard. But he’s only half paying attention to them. Mostly—and this is a surprise to no one anymore—his attention is across the room. On Baz.

They spent most of the morning in this bed, and it shows rather nicely on him. His hair is mussed, and the skin under his eyes is bright and pale, clear of bags. He’s still wearing what he went to sleep in. It’s one of Simon’s oldest jumpers—more a memory of navy blue than actual navy blue by now—and he isn’t quite filling out the shoulders. He looks perfect. Baz Pitch with all of the outer facade washed away.

At the moment, he’s standing in front of their open wardrobe, his back to Simon. Simon watches as he pushes the neat line of their clothes aside with one hand, and pulls two garment bags out with the other.

Baz has bought more suits for Simon over the past five years than Simon thought he’d ever wear in his lifetime. Mostly because the Grimms and Pitches are still ridiculously posh, and every little get-together has a dress code (which is almost always black tie). Simon would have been happy to reuse a couple of the ones he has for Penny’s ceremony and reception. She would have been too.

But Baz had been vehemently against that. _“Snow, you can’t. Absolutely not. That would be like Bunce wearing one of her everyday dresses to the altar.”_

So Simon let himself get dragged out for another fitting. They each got two suits out of that trip, and the ones they wore for the ceremony proper were classic black and white. The pictures came out lovely.

There’s one in particular that Simon loves.

It’s a picture taken at the altar, where Penny and Shepard were married to each other just a few minutes before. Shepard isn’t in this picture though. It’s just the four of them from Watford: Simon, Penny, Baz, and Agatha in bridesmaids’ pink.

Penny glows in the dress her aunt designed for her—an English-Indian fusion piece that had even _Baz_ impressed. There’s a string of jasmines in her hair and a bouquet in one of her hands. The other is in Simon’s.

Simon is looking at her.

It isn’t obvious in the picture that he’s crying. But he was. He remembers the photographer giving them instructions on how to stand together a moment before, and the feeling of Penny’s hand seeking out his own. He remembers turning to look at her, seeing her glance up at him with bright eyes and a big smile on her face, and realising so suddenly that… she was _married_.

His best friend was married. And they were standing there together, alive. Older than they ever thought they might get, in love with their respective persons. Happy, most of all. And he was crying before he knew what was coming. He felt like a bit of an idiot for that, but only for the second before Penny started tearing up as well. Then the feeling wasn’t embarrassing anymore. It was something they shared.

That picture sits on a cabinet in his and Baz’s living room now. Simon and Penny’s eyes are shining, Baz has the gentlest expression on his face, and Agatha smiles with an unfiltered pride and happiness that Simon can’t say he’s ever seen on her before.

[](https://ibb.co/HBJ6FH5)  
  
He looks at that photo a lot.

Anyway…

The classic suits looked great in the photos. But the ones they picked for tonight have more personal character to them.

Baz has started unzipping one of the garment bags. When he pulls the suit out from inside, Simon realises that it’s his. Made of a rich velvety material, deep blue with black lapels. It’s a lot like the one he wore to Baz’s Leavers Ball years ago, except this one actually fits around his shoulders. And it isn’t on loan from Agatha’s dad.

It gets hooked up over one of the wardrobe doors, then Baz moves on to unveiling his. And it’s _still_ a sight to behold, even though Simon already stared at it enough when Baz was getting it fitted.

“It’s like you upgraded,” Simon observes, and Baz raises an eyebrow at him. “From just the flowers to the whole garden.”

That makes Baz snort. But he doesn’t deny it (because it’s true). The suit’s base is pure black and covered in shimmery-gold branches, vibrant green leaves, and even a bird singing at one shoulder. The man at the shop said it was Japanese-influenced.

“Well, I’m adventurous, Snow. Can’t say the same about you.”

“I thought you liked me in that suit.”

Baz sniffs. “Of course I like you in it. It was a statement on taste… who in Merlin’s name _is_ that?”

Simon’s phone has started going mental again. He picks it up to see a new flood of messages coming in, each notification getting quickly pushed down by a new one. (Everything Shepard does exudes chaotic energy.) “Shep,” he says.

“Oh? And how is he managing?”

“I think he’s been kicked out of the hall.”

A snort. “By which Bunce?”

“Both of them?” Simon squints at the string of Shepard’s messages. “Honestly, it’s a little hard to tell. He texts almost completely in emojis. And exclamations.”

“Fascinating,” Baz says. Then the wardrobe doors thump closed and the bathroom door opens a second later. Simon hears the flick of the light switch. “I’m going to shower now.”

“Mm,” Simon says, not looking away from his phone.

“Snow,” Baz says.

“What.”

“Don’t fall asleep.”

“Mmm.”

_“Simon.”_

“Merlin, I won’t. Bugger off.”

-

Simon is asleep by the time Baz comes out of the bathroom.

Which was completely predictable, obviously. He always does. It’s practically a part of their routine.

But Baz has given up trying to be upset about it. Who is he kidding? There’s nothing fifteen-year-old Baz wouldn’t have given for this: the experience of opening his bathroom door with fresh hair, the smell of his expensive soaps all around him, and seeing Simon Snow dozing in a pool of light on their bed. It’s as close to his idea of heaven as anything’s ever been.

Also, he can’t exactly blame Simon—that bed was their most expensive investment when they moved in here together. And it’s been worth every penny.

Baz walks over to the foot of the bed. Simon’s bare feet are hanging off the edge (which is ridiculously endearing, for unexplainable reasons). “Simon,” he says, not too loud. He waits for a second, but when that produces no response, he leans forward and pushes gently at Simon’s shoulder (his shirt is warm from the sun). “Wake up.”

“Pff,” Simon says. And that’s it. A puff from his slightly pouted lips. His head is tipped to one side and his curls are half-obscuring one of his eyes, haloed in the watery afternoon light. He looks like a cherub. (And he also needs a haircut. Truthfully, he’s needed one for about a month now, but Baz is too attached to this length to tell him so.)

Baz schools his involuntary smile into something more stern, then tries again.

 _“Simon Snow.”_ This time the shake he gives Simon is enough to jolt him awake. Baz waits for Simon’s eyes to focus on him before raising an eyebrow.

Simon mumbles, “Oh.”

“Oh,” Baz mocks. “Get in the shower, Snow.”

Simon moans at that and tips himself over onto his side, away from Baz. “Do I have to?” he asks. His voice is slightly muffled by the sheets.

“If you want to survive Penelope Bunce’s wrath? Yes.”

A quiet sigh, one with the weight of the world on its shoulders. Then Simon falls onto his back again and looks up at Baz with sleepy eyes. Baz feels his chest squeeze. Then it eases up again with a laugh when Simon wordlessly reaches a hand out to him. He takes it, pulling Simon up in one smooth motion. Simon grunts and sways a little once he’s on his feet, knocking into Baz slightly. He still smells like the curry from earlier, and a hint of the detergent they use on their sheets.

“Thanks,” he says, rubbing the heel of his hand into his eye. He yawns suddenly—expansively—and doesn’t even cover his mouth. Baz makes a face and puts his own hand over it. He gets swatted away.

But he does also get a warm, sleepy kiss on the cheek before Simon disappears into the bathroom, so he takes it as a decided win.

-

“Wait, so—who’s coming on your end again?”

Baz makes a noise that’s supposed to mean _“wait”_ , then leans down and spits his toothpaste out into the sink. “What do you mean?” he asks.

“I mean, your family,” Simon says. He’s a vague, foggy impression of colour through the glass wall of the shower. The steady sound of rushing water is echoing off the walls—it makes Baz feel like he’s standing in the middle of a waterfall. The sharp snap of a bottle cap opening cuts through the sound for a moment. “Who’s coming tonight?”

“Daphne is bringing the twins,” Baz says. He rinses his mouth out with water, then twists the tap off. “And Mordelia. Obviously.”

Simon laughs.

“What?”

“I don’t know… I still find it funny.”

“What?” Baz asks again, though he can guess what.

“Penny and your sister,” Simon says vaguely. “BFFs.”

“Snow, please don’t say things like that.”

“Don’t you think so?” Simon presses.

It _was_ an amusing development at first. But in hindsight, Baz really should have seen it coming. Mordelia is sixteen now, and easily one of the two most formidable people Baz knows. The other obviously being Penelope Bunce. They’re a match made in heaven (or hell—it depends entirely on the nature of their debates. Sometimes Baz sees Mordelia narrowing her eyes, or Bunce taking a deep breath, and he immediately drags Simon out of the room).

“Well,” Baz says. “What did you expect? They’re both menaces to society.”

“You love them,” Simon shoots back. “Both.”

“Is that an accusation? I love you too, Snow. You don’t have to worry about it.”

There’s a pause; Baz thinks he can hear Simon’s smile in it. “No Fiona then?” he asks soon after.

Baz scoffs, reaching up to the shelf by the sink for his shaving foam and razor. “Oh, Fiona’s definitely coming. She was already loath to miss the wedding.” (She’d had business in Prague that wouldn’t get done on time.)

“Because she loves Penny _that_ much?”

“Because she wanted to make fun of Shepard at it.”

The water cuts off. “You know, Shepard’s dealt with demons,” Simon’s disembodied voice muses. “ _Actual_ demons.”

“What’s your point?”

“I mean—and he’s terrified of Fiona.”

“Yes.” Baz quirks an eyebrow at his reflection. “Still waiting.”

Simon laughs, and the shower door slides open. In the mirror, Baz sees a wet and currently-wavy head of curls poke itself out from behind the door. Then a hand emerges too. It waves toward the opposite wall.

“Towel?”

Baz hands it to him, and he disappears again for a few seconds. When he comes out, the towel is wrapped around his hips (barely hanging on) and the rest of him is open to the elements. He’s a memory of summer even in the middle of autumn—all damp, golden skin and so many freckles one could believe he’d just spent hours in the sun.

He’s also put on a good bit of muscle lately, courtesy of the self-defense lessons he’s been giving to the kids at a care home nearby. So not only does Baz get to sigh over Simon’s heart of pure gold, he also gets to enjoy the _other_ results of his thoughtfulness. The ones that appeal to Baz for purely selfish reasons. It’ll take some time yet before any definite lines start showing on Simon’s stomach, but it’s hard and firm under Baz’s hands these days. And his biceps, his forearms… well, they’re very enjoyable.

Baz has his daily moment of extreme gratitude that this is the life he gets to live now.

“How are we doing on time?” he calls as Simon walks out into the bedroom. He sees him bend over to look at the clock on the nightstand.

“Quarter to two,” he shouts back. Then he disappears from sight, and Baz hears the cupboard door squeaking open. “What time d’you reckon we’ll get there?” There’s the vague sound of clothes rustling as he roots around for something (no doubt messing up the neat piles Baz folded them into).

“If we leave in—mm, an hour… I should think we’ll arrive right before Bunce cuts our heads off.”

“Great,” Simon says, and comes back into view with a pair of black pants on. He’s scrunching his towel up with both hands, walking towards the hamper. Baz notices him glancing around. Is he looking for something? There’s the dull _whump_ of the towel being tossed into the hamper, then Baz hears a mumble of, “too quiet”, and _ah_ —he knows now.

This is another part of their routine, and he won’t admit it, but he might love it almost as much as Simon does.

Simon wanders out of the room, and Baz finishes up with his shave. He’s checking his chin for missed spots when Simon comes back with his speaker in hand. It’s a sleek black thing, Bluetooth-operated. Worth a fortune and a half. And for once, it wasn’t Baz’s gift. Simon decided to treat himself.

He’s been doing that more in recent years. Self-care. Baz is glad to see it. Because Simon’s spent the better part of his life either trying to survive or trying to make other people happy. Trying to do what was right. He never gave any thought to doing what _he_ needed to do. And it’s fine—it’s all well and good to have people shower you in affection (of which Simon receives plenty, between Baz, Penelope, Shepard, Agatha and her family, the teachers at Watford… he’s a well-loved boy), but it’s something else to give _yourself_ love.

It’s made him happier. More confident. He lets himself have things that he wants and likes now. He voices his opinions more. He’s finally—after _years_ —started allowing himself to live.

And Baz is the lucky man who gets to do it with him.

The speaker makes a bright _ping_ sound as Simon’s phone connects to it. He’s already humming something quietly to himself, scrolling through his playlist. If Baz strained, he’d probably be able to get a preview of the song that’s coming. But he doesn’t have to. Simon is already dropping his phone back onto the bed, and the song starts a second later.

There’s a guitar in the intro, sounding slightly thin and faraway. It’s not immediately recognisable to Baz, but the tune tickles at his mind, teasing that he _knows_ the song. He just isn’t able to place it. It’s aggravating. He catches Simon’s eye in the mirror and makes a face that says as much, and Simon grins back, raising his eyebrows.

The guitar keeps going. Then a bass thrums to life and plucks through a set of chords. And Baz’s expression lights up with recognition, a split second before the beat kicks in. Simon laughs.

And then he’s dancing.

_Well, I don’t know why I came here tonight  
I got the feeling that something ain’t right_

Simon isn’t a dancer by any means, but he’s enchanting when he’s really happy. Baz can’t help the grin that pushes at his lips as he watches him in the mirror. Bopping from left to right to left again, making a slow zigzag path back towards the bathroom. His head is down, swinging from side to side so Baz gets glimpses of his faux-serious expression, and it looks like he’s playing air-drums with his hands.

_I’m so scared in case I fall off my chair  
And I’m wondering how I’ll get down the stairs_

Simon headbangs his hair out of his eyes. And as he throws his head back, he catches the look on Baz’s face in the mirror. Baz has no doubt that it’s hopelessly mushy. The fake seriousness from earlier melts away, replaced now by a big, open-mouthed smile. He looks so happy.

_Clowns to the left of me  
Jokers to the right  
Here I am—_

_“Stuck in the middle with you,”_ Simon sings, coming up behind Baz and wrapping him in a hug. Baz makes a sound that’s half a laugh and half a groan. He can feel Simon’s front against his back, and his arms around his waist. It’s not that he doesn’t love it, but—

 _“Snow.”_ Baz tries to wriggle himself out of Simon’s grip; but he’ll admit that it’s a half-hearted attempt. “Crowley, you’re still so wet. Why do you never dry yourself properly?”

Simon laughs by his ear, light and warm, and squeezes Baz tighter than before. Then—just like the little twat he is—he presses his head into Baz’s neck. There are still water droplets clinging to his hair. Baz hisses and pulls his shoulders up at the cold sting of them on his skin. (Which is cold enough as it is, thank you.)

 _“Prick,”_ he breathes, wriggling a bit more forcefully. But Simon’s head is gone the next second along with his arms. Baz only has one second to consider regretting making the statement—then there are hands on his hips, spinning him around and trapping him back against the counter. And Simon Snow is right there in front of him: unremarkable blue eyes, drooping wet curls of hair and all. He’s breathtaking.

 _It’s so hard to keep this smile from my face,_ the singer goes,  
 _Losing control, yeah, I’m all over the place_

Baz huffs and shakes his head at Simon, who only smiles and leans closer.

_Clowns to the left of me  
Jokers to the right_

Simon mumble-sings the line right up against Baz’s mouth, _“Here I am—stuck in the middle with you…”_

Baz supposes that isn’t a bad thing.

-

Simon put his playlist on shuffle earlier, which means that he has just as much idea what’s coming next as Baz does.

It doesn’t matter too much anyway. His whole playlist is full of songs that make him feel good (he doesn’t really listen to sadder things—that’s more Baz’s style), so he doesn’t have to worry about a change in mood. Everything is light and easy to listen to. There’s some Stevie Nicks on there by Penny’s recommendation, _Wham!_ from Baz’s ( _“Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go”_ is his guilty favourite. He probably thinks Simon doesn’t notice his shoulders popping a little to the song, or him mouthing the lyrics, but he isn’t that slick.)

They’re shoulder-to-shoulder at the bathroom sink. Simon brushes his teeth and bops messily to whatever song is playing from the bedroom. (He tries roping Baz into dancing with him when _Sucker_ comes on, but that’s a bit of a disaster, what with all of Baz’s fancy products on the counter.) (“Fuck.” “ _This_ is why I kept all my things away from you at school.”) Baz puts the usual things onto his skin and into his hair, and Simon slowly becomes surrounded by the smell of cedar and bergamot.

Baz tries to get Simon to put something in _his_ hair too, and the usual bickering ensues:

Baz: “Just a little bit, Snow. No one will even know it’s there.”

Simon: “Then what’s even the point?”

“Well, they’ll know, but they won’t _know_ they know. It’s a very fine art. Now come here.”

Simon lets him anyway—he always does. Mostly it just feels nice to have Baz’s hands in his hair. Confident and sure, but still gentle. The rhythm and pressure of his movements relax Simon so much that his eyes drift closed, and he could fall asleep if Baz doesn’t keep nudging him. (And kissing him. That one is a much more effective tactic.)

His hair does look good when Baz is done with it.

“Come on, James Dean,” Baz says. “Time to suit up.”

Back in the bedroom, Baz walks over to the wardrobe and reaches up to unhook their suits from the doors. Simon goes for his phone and pulls Spotify up on the screen.

“Any requests?” he asks. Baz has turned, holding Simon’s suit out to him. Simon takes it.

“I don’t suppose you have any old jazz on there.” He doesn’t sound too hopeful. (Jazz isn’t really Simon’s thing.)

Simon shrugs. “I have Frank Sinatra.”

“Do you?” Baz raises an eyebrow and comes to look over Simon’s shoulder. “When did that happen?”

“Um. A year ago?”

“And you _didn’t tell me_.”

“I didn’t want to set you off on a jazz thing.”

Baz holds out his hand. “Give me that.”

Simon groans—“See?”—but lets Baz take the phone out of his hands anyway.

“Shush. I’m giving you an education.”

Simon rolls his eyes. “Well, queue _The Way You Look Tonight_ anyway.”

“After some others,” Baz says, already sounding distracted as he goes searching for songs. “I’m adding some other genres. Alright?” Simon hums his acquiescence, leaving him to it. There’s no dissuading Baz when he gets like this anyway.

It’s a few minutes later before Frank’s honey-smooth voice starts floating through the air. Not _The Way You Look Tonight_. Simon’s never heard this one before.

_Let’s take it nice ‘n’ easy_   
_It’s gonna be so easy_   
_For us to fall in love…_

“To ease you into it,” Baz says, setting Simon’s phone onto the nightstand by the speaker. “Since you like him.”

“It’s nice,” Simon says quietly, glancing over at him.

“I know it’s nice.” Baz has started walking back to the wardrobe where his suit is still hanging, undoing the knot holding his kimono-type thing closed (it’s black, almost-sheer, and covered with cherry blossoms—it’s been distracting Simon ever since he was awake enough to notice it). Simon treats himself to a second of watching him slip it off his shoulders. Then his arms.

But it’s Baz, and it’s Simon. It’s impossible to stop watching once he’s started. He ends up paying less attention getting himself into his own suit than he does watching Baz get into his—stepping into his trousers, pulling his crisp black shirt on, sweeping his hair back over his shoulders so he can fold his collar the right way. It’s a whole scene.

The clock ticks gently away on the nightstand, and the speaker continues filling the air with old tunes. Simon walks over to his phone whenever he likes a song that’s playing, so he can save it: _A Sunday Kind of Love_ by Etta James. More Frank: _These Foolish Things Remind Me of You_. Every time he does it, he notices Baz smiling with satisfaction out of the corner of his eye.

Simon has just tapped the little heart icon on another song ( _On The Street Where You Live_ ) when Baz hums.

“I didn’t think you’d like that.”

“Yeah, it’s good,” Simon says.

“The original is from _My Fair Lady_ ,” Baz supplies.

“The movie?” Simon looks up. Then he pauses, blinking.

Baz is standing in front of the full-length mirror by the wardrobe, facing away from Simon; he’s doing his tie in the reflection. And for one moment, Simon feels his heart lurch and stutter in his chest. Because this looks—well, it looks like a different time. It looks like Watford. Like Simon is across their room at the top of Mummers again, trying to secretly watch Baz in the mirror.

It’s more than a little disorienting. But it passes. There are too many things that are new about this moment for Simon to mistake it as the past.

There’s Baz’s hair, for one thing. It’s no longer slicked back the way it used to be in school. Now it falls loosely around his face, and has also gotten long enough to brush those cliff’s-edge collarbones of his. His face is obviously more mature (in all good ways, but maybe Simon is biased), and Simon definitely never saw this expression on it when they were younger. He looks totally relaxed and unguarded, an easy smile tilting the corners of his lips up. Like it’s easy, like it costs him nothing.

There’s the tie itself—a deep, rich green instead of the more vibrant Watford colours. And Baz is pulling it into a bow rather than the standard school knot.

There’s the ring on his left hand.

It’s almost 3 o’clock now, and the sunlight slanting in through the bedroom windows is a warmer yellow than before. It sets off the gold of the engagement band perfectly. As Simon watches, a deft movement of Baz’s fingers at his throat angles the ring just so, and it catches the light, winking at Simon across the room. Playfully, maybe. But also surely. A promise.

A promise.

“Simon?”

Simon glances up. He’s immediately caught by a pair of familiar, lovely grey eyes. One of Baz’s eyebrows is cocked at him in his reflection, questioning.

“Sorry,” Simon breathes. He shakes himself a little. “You were saying?”

“I said yes, the movie,” Baz says slowly. His expression turns from inquisitive to mild and amused. “Are you alright, Snow?”

Simon’s heart feels full and unsteady in his chest. He opens his mouth, takes a breath.

“Need help with my tie,” is what he settles on. (Because he’s eternally lame.)

Baz snorts and shakes his head. Then he turns from the mirror and comes over to Simon, taking the tie from his hand and looping it around Simon’s neck. He pulls it taut. “One would think you’d know how to tie a tie by now, Snow.” His eyes are warm when they catch Simon’s, then he begins to work.

“This is a bow,” Simon says. “I don’t tie bows.”

“You’re part of my family,” Baz says, and there goes Simon’s heart again at that word. Family. “I’m certain you’ve tied at least a few bows. My father would have thrown a fit if you _hadn’t_ worn a bow at some point.”

“There was only one time, and you magicked it for me at the last minute.”

“Maybe I _shouldn’t_. You need to learn to do this yourself.”

“Why bother if I can just ask you?”

Baz pauses and raises his eyes—and an eyebrow—at him. “I’m not sure that would be allowed on _our_ wedding day.”

Oh. Heat flushes gently into Simon’s cheeks. “Alright,” he mutters, “shut up.” And Baz hums, amused.

They lapse into silence, and the music that’s still playing fills in the spaces (there it is— _The Way You Look Tonight_ ). Simon looks up at Baz while he fiddles with his work, and Baz doesn’t look back at him. But there is a small smile peeking out the corner of his mouth that gives him away. He’s so beautiful. And he’s Simon’s. In a foreseeable future, he’ll be Simon’s in the way that everyone will recognise. In name. On paper. And Simon can’t believe it.

He can’t believe anything, sometimes. Sometimes he catches himself when he’s just walking through the flat, or when Penny calls and jokingly blames ‘her idiotic husband’ for something, or when he wakes up with Baz sleeping next to him in bed, and he has to remind himself that this is real. This is his life now.

There's nothing more he could ever ask for.

Baz declares Simon’s bow done shortly after. Then they check the clock and panic a little because they hadn’t realised they’d fallen so far behind on time. They quickly go through the motions of pocketing necessary items and making sure the flat won’t burn down in their absence. _Hairdryer unplugged? Lights off?_

“Do you have your keys?” Baz asks once they’ve made their way out to the living room. Simon is sitting on the arm of one of the sofas, putting his socks on. He makes a vague waving motion toward the room behind him.

“Should be somewhere here,” he says. Baz rolls his eyes, but gamely goes looking anyway. When Simon finishes up a few seconds later, he finds Baz standing by one of the cabinets. He comes up next to him.

“Found them?”

Baz starts a little, and turns to Simon more quickly than normal. He _does_ have the keys in his hand, Simon sees. But he’s also seen now what Baz was pausing over. The picture from Penny’s wedding, the one at the altar.

“Right,” Baz says, and Simon looks back up at him. There’s a slightly sheepish look on his face. He holds the keys out to Simon. “Here.”

Simon dutifully extends a palm out to him, but when Baz places the keys in it, he folds his fingers over Baz’s before he can withdraw them again. The metal of the engagement ring is cold against Simon’s skin. Colder even than Baz’s skin. But the feeling it makes in his chest is all warm.

He brings Baz’s hand up to his mouth and kisses it right over the band. The one that Simon put there.

Baz’s eyes are soft on him. He squeezes Simon’s fingers gently. “Ready, Snow?” he asks.

Simon smiles against his skin, then lets their intertwined hands swing down together between them.

“Ready,” he says. And he’s never meant it more.

**Author's Note:**

> if anyone wanted to see baz's beautiful suit, [here's](https://cdn.shopify.com/s/files/1/0063/8690/9257/products/Floral_Embroidered_One_Button_Dress_Suit_For_Men6.jpg?v=1571744913) the reference i used!
> 
> tumblrs: [pari](https://parijpg.tumblr.com/), [may](https://sbazzing.tumblr.com/)
> 
> thank you so much for reading!! hope you liked it. <3


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